


The Silver and the Glass

by grumkin_snark



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 09:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: Everything had happened so quickly she hadn’t had time to mourn.





	The Silver and the Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I love them so much it hurts.

Everything had happened so quickly she hadn’t had time to mourn. She’d let herself succumb to shock for only a few moments after the challenge, after T’Challa had endured wound after wound and then, finally, had been thrown from the edge, plummeting to the water below. Her duty to her king had perished with him; instead she’d gained a new duty, to get the remaining royal family to safety. By rights, Shuri had become queen the moment her brother died, and she knows the girl and the queen mother alike knew exactly that, but none of them was inclined to accept it.

She’d tamped down her grief in favor of purpose, had stolen the last of the heart-shaped herb and brought Shuri and Ramonda to M’Baku, had witnessed her king, her love, awaken, then had been thrust into battle, a battle they’d _won_. There had been no time to process the events as they occurred, and now that there is a lull as everyone tends to their injuries, it comes washing over her like a summer storm.

She does not focus on Killmonger who lies dead, his arms crossed in the Wakandan salute; she can’t, not now. His anger had been valid, even if his methods were not, she knows that deep down. But he had killed so many, had thrown Wakanda into chaos, and she cannot overcome that. So no, she does not reflect on Killmonger.

T’Challa comes to mind, as he always does no matter where she is. The utter _emptiness_ of his expression and the limpness of his body as he was so carelessly tossed aside. The crushing realization that had it not been for the Jabari tribe’s mercy, he would never again have opened his eyes. He would never again have donned the suit, never again would she have heard his voice, the way he said her name as though it was a prayer, never again would she have felt his kiss, soft and possessive and hesitant all at once.

She sits by herself in the ritual chamber, grateful for the silence though it means she must smell the lingering smoke from the destroyed herbs. A wracking sob builds its way up through her chest, the first of its kind in longer than she can remember. She had been trained to not succumb overmuch to emotion, for emotion can get you killed. All these years on her missions she had turned anguish into fury, unleashing it on her enemies.

But now there is no one to unleash it on, not with Killmonger defeated, and so exhaustion is all she has left. She pulls her knees up to her chest and drops her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. The throbbing deep slash across her thigh is barely noticeable, half-healed already thanks to Shuri’s technology, and she doesn’t realize he’s entered until she feels his hand on her shoulder.

With anyone else, her experience would induce a violent reaction on reflex, flipping him to the floor perhaps, or shoving him against a wall with her arm at his throat. But even as light as his touch is, she would know it anywhere. She doesn’t question how he’d found her. This has been her spot since she was a child. _Their_ spot.

“Nakia.” Her name is reverent on his tongue as he sits down beside her. “Why do you grieve?”

She turns to look at him. It occurs to her that she could lie to him to spare her pride, but she knows he would deliver no judgment. “I nearly lost you. I could not bear such a thing.”

“I am not dead, you do not need to fear.” His smile is gentle, and he takes her hand and places it on his chest so she can feel the strong, steady beat of his heart.

She cups his cheek, his beard rough and his skin warm as sun-scorched sand. “I will always fear for you.”

He turns his head to kiss her palm; it’s an intimacy she hasn’t felt in a long, long time. She had not had opportunity to reflect on that either, the fact that despite the distance and years, her love for him had never faded. He had been even more of an open book, bared to her regardless of who was watching. It is an uncomfortable reminder that she hadn’t properly answered his request for her to be his queen. His _wife_.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she says, so quietly she can barely hear herself. “Don’t leave me.”

It’s not a promise he can make, not with the life he leads, but all the same he draws her into him and whispers, “Never.”


End file.
